


Wondering

by NoaMilk



Category: Octopath Traveler (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Can be seen as platonic, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, all the other travelers are mentioned, darius is just mentioned, darius sucks, first ao3 post, just a little, light fluff, no beta we die like men, sprinkled in there
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-11
Updated: 2020-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:22:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23106919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoaMilk/pseuds/NoaMilk
Summary: Being alone had been his shield for six long years.The knowledge that nobody knew him better than himself, and nobody could use it against him. Nobody knew what betrayal really meant to him, and no one knew where it really hurt.Nobody knew.Except for one.
Relationships: Alfyn Greengrass/Therion
Comments: 7
Kudos: 89





	Wondering

Being alone had been his shield for six long years.

The knowledge that nobody knew him better than himself, and nobody could use it against him. Nobody knew what betrayal really meant to him, and no one knew where it really hurt.

Nobody knew.

Except for one.

Therion looks over the side, hand on the rocky red walls and wonders. Wonders where he is right now. Wonders about what could've happened if he'd notice something sooner, what could've happened if they'd never met.

What could've happened if he'd landed just a little bit farther away from where he did.

He sighs, picking at the glossy pink skin across his eye, and it doesn't go unnoticed. Alfyn looks over his shoulder slightly at the sound of his breath and lowers the speed of his walking to step next to the thief.

"Heya, how're ya holding up?" He asks, and Therion lowers his hand, having to turn his head up to look him in the eye. Or maybe not directly in the eye, because he can't bring himself to look at those bright, trusting, brown eyes.

Instead he looks forward, at the green of his jacket, and realizes he can't bring himself to look at that either, because the apothecary isn't what he thinks of when he sees green, outlined by the oranges and reds of the Cliftlands. He doesn't think about how it's Alfyn's favorite color, or how it's supposed to represent life. Because maybe for others it does, but all it is to him is the color of betrayal; the last thing he saw before he was shoved off that damned cliff.

"I'm fine." He manages, even though in his head he knows he's probably not. He's not, because if he were, he wouldn't be thinking about _him_. He wouldn't be thinking about the day he experienced what it felt like to have the water slap across his injured back, bones breaking from the height and speed of his fall. How he survived is a question that he asked himself when he pulled himself out of the river with an arm that miraculously wasn't broken, or when he laid down on the rocky path, crying as he screamed out _why_ , _why_ _would_ _you_ _do_ _this?_

Alfyn doesn't seem convinced, but his sour expression is enough to silence him, and the two of them walk side by side, no words exchanged between them.

The apothecary looks contented looking at the rocky scenery (which he doesn't understand, for more than one reason) and is clutching the strap of his satchel like he always does.

Primrose's red dress, redder than the orangey rocks, flutters to his left, and his eye drifts over to watch the dancer gracefully walk down the same path as him, although probably a lot nicer to look at.

"Oh, hey Prim! Are your feet okay?" Alfyn gestures towards her slim feet, sore and full of blisters from walking in heels.

"Just fine, but I would appreciate it if we could rest for a while. I really ought to get boots. We are heading to Stillsnow after our visit to Bolderfall, after all."

"I mean, it is gonna get dark soon. Settin' up camp would be a good idea, considering we're still a day's walk away from Bolderfall."

The three of them stop walking, and when the others take notice, they start to crowd around (too close) and discuss their mutual agreement that setting up camp would be a good idea, even though they could still see the sun.

Nevertheless, preparing for camp took them quite a while, what with Cyrus and Tressa's inexperience when it comes to traveling.

Therion's feet succumb to the weight of his body, and when the bedrolls are all set, he all but collapses onto it— doesn't even bother unstrapping his knives or removing his shoes. That's enough thinking for today.

"Tired, eh?" Alfyn says, occupying the bedroll beside him. "Me too."

He's playing with a leaf and facing the other way, his back to Therion, and for the millionth time today he wonders. Wonders why in the hells Alfyn, or any of them for the matter, would turn their backs to him. He's a thief and they shouldn't trust him, he could already be preparing to stab them in the back.

All of those thoughts dissipate when Alfyn turns to face him, big, goofy grin on his face as he stretches out his arm. Maybe it should’ve been more obvious that it was so obviously not _him_ , but it was just the wrong place, and at exactly the wrong time, too.

And he can’t help tensing up because right now it looks exactly like he’s going to drop that leaf and open his hand and wrap it around his neck and pull out his dagger and drag it down his eye while laughing because he let him get too close and _oh, how he trusts way too easily, despite all of his warnings—_

But the pain around his neck doesn’t come, and neither does the dagger, or the lack of air in his lungs, or even the feeling of falling down the precipice. Instead, Alfyn holds the leaf (green, far greener than anything that grows in the Cliftlands) and...

and wiggles it around his face, feather light and ticklish.

"Wh—hey! Stop it, what the fuck do you think you're doing?"

Alfyn lets out an honest, good natured laugh as he drops the leaf onto his face. He grabs it and tosses it away, sitting up at glaring at the apothecary.

"The fuck was that for?"

"Nothin' much. You just looked out of it, and I wanted to cheer ya up."

"Yeah, I am absolutely overjoyed by the fact that you just shoved a leaf up my nose." He says sarcastically, and that only warrants more laughter from the apothecary. Cyrus and Tressa look up from their respective books at their bantering.

"Hey, I didn't shove it up your nostril." He giggles, “I was cheering you up. You don’t looks half as tense as you were earlier.” He declares with a smile. Therion sinks lower into his scarf. He’s not wrong.

“Hey,” He hears the shuffling as Alfyn leans back to lay his head against Therion’s own bedroll. He suppresses the urge to tell him to move away. But maybe, just maybe, in a different place and time, he’d have let him.

“Um, I’ve noticed that you tend to stray clear of the cliffside and I just wanna tell ya that I don’t like them either. You know, so you’re not alone in your fear.” He explains, and if Therion were a lesser man, he’s sure he would’ve let out the most pathetic sound.

“You just seemed a lot sadder today. I won’t ask you for details, but I’m here if you want to talk.” Alfyn says, and Gods, how that makes his heart feel like it’s being—

being what? The words hurt so bad, like they’re squeezing his heart in a grip so tight that it’s stopped beating, but they felt so good, relieving, and comforting in a way nothing has been for a very long time.

He wants to curse him; curse him for being so goddamn perceptive, for being so damn trusting, so kind, so understanding, and for somehow knowing exactly where it hurts. But he knows deep down he wants to tell him about himself and the whole, ugly truth. He doesn’t know how to feel about that.

Being alone used to be his shield, but now he’s not so sure. Now, every time he thinks about the possibility of them growing tired of him or realizing he’s just a good-for-nothing thief, it hurts. Knowing that they trust him, that Alfyn trusts him, more than he trusts them hurts so bad.

He tries to swallow down the lump in his throat, but for some reason it won’t go away.

“It’s a natural thing, having a fear of heights. I mean, fear in general is natural, but you know what I mean.” He waves his hand around dismissively. “Anyone would be terrified of cliffs. I know I am.”

“It’s,” not the same he wants to say, but would that be too much? Would that be revealing too much about himself? If he said those words, would Alfyn ask about the rest, and would he tell him the truth?

Alfyn doesn’t ask him to continue what he started saying, but he can hear the quiet inquiry in the silence. He doesn’t answer the unspoken question.

Dinner starts with H’aanit’s return (grilled birdian, but anything tastes good if it's her cooking, so whatever) and as the night passed on, the only sounds heard nearing midnight were the flipping of Cyrus’s book pages, and the scribbling of Tressa’s pen against paper. Olberic took to polishing his sword, and H’aanit sat around the fire, absently petting Linde. Primrose, as she always was, was off sulking, or looking sadly at her dagger. Ophilia slept in early because of whatever holy lifestyle she’s lived back in Flamesgrace. Either way, they all fell asleep eventually.

All except for Therion and the dumbass apothecary that won’t leave him alone.

Alfyn opted to stay awake to work on his concoctions despite the lack of light, and Therion can hear the quiet humming of an old Riverlands lullaby coming from the direction of his bedroll which just so happened to be situated right beside his. Somehow that doesn’t make him as tense as it usually would.

“Never knew you could make sounds that soft.” He mused. “Still a little too loud for the middle of the night though.”

Alfyn looks up from his wooden mortar and pestle. Maybe he realized he needed the sleep, or maybe he just got tired of crushing leaves into dust, because he starts putting away his medical supplies and gets under the covers of his bedroll.

“I didn’t tell you to stop. You could’ve continued making your thing.”

“Yeah, you didn’t.” Alfyn agrees “But I thought I should start sleepin’ early. You just reminded me of that.” He can hear the apothecary shuffling in his bedroll, and through the darkness of the night he can somewhat make out his signature goofy grin. His heart skips a beat.

_Stop it. Don’t be weird._

Therion grunts in response, not sure his voice would come out as anything less than something like a whimpering cat.

“I don’t really feel like sleepin’ though.” Alfyn says. “Wanna chat in the meantime?” _Not particularly_ , he thinks, but he might as well, seeing as there doesn’t seem to be anything else to do in the middle of the night. He grunts out his response.

Despite the suggestion of chatting, silence is all that comes. There seems to be something on Alfyn’s mind, but if he’s learned anything from _him_ it’s that bringing it up will just make things worse.

 _The cliffs naturally just bring in thoughts of him, don’t they?_ Therion thinks bitterly.

It’s not as if Therion and Alfyn have anything interesting to talk about. They don’t share any interests, and Alfyn doesn’t seem to be showing any signs of rambling on about Clearbrook. There is simply nothing to talk about.

Silence is a double-edged sword. Sometimes it brings him peace, and he finds himself liking it when it does. Other times it brings back memories of times he’d rather not remember. He can't tell what kind of silence this is.

“Hey,” Alfyn starts, his voice small and unsure. “Um, what were you going to say earlier? When we were talking about cliffs.” Therion tenses under the blanket.

Does he really want to know? If he were to talk to him, if he were to tell him the real, entire truth, would they still want him here? What were the chances that Alfyn would tell the others without his permission, and that they’d use that information against him? He doesn’t want to know. He doesn’t want to be betrayed again. But he wants to tell them so bad- he wants to tell Alfyn everything.

He doesn’t want to be alone.

“My fear isn’t irrational.” he says, so quietly, he’s not even sure the apothecary heard it.

“Oh.” Alfyn gasps out. More silence follows, and Therion grips his bedroll in a white knuckled fist.

“You know, it’s fine if it isn’t.” Alfyn replies, just as quietly as Therion.

“Some nights, when I’m working, I’ve noticed how you wake up from your nightmares. Kind of like you’re falling.” Alfyn is so hesitant when he says these words, a far cry from his usual cheerful loudness.

“I wasn’t deliberately watching you—you just scream sometimes and, you know,” Alfyn trails off, and he doesn’t need to hear the rest to know what happens next.

“If you don’t mind me asking,” _I do mind_ , Therion thinks, but in his mind, his heart, he knows he’s been longing to hear these words, whether he was aware of it or not. He needed to hear them come out of Alfyn mouth, fear of betrayal be damned.

“Did you fall off a cliff, before? Or did you watch someone else—”

“I fell.” Therion replies, almost too quickly, a little too loud for the middle of the night. “I fell.” He repeats, barely audible, and on the verge of tears.

“Therion...” He sucks in a breath. _Please don’t say my name like that, don’t say it like you care._

“It’s been six years, and I’m still not over it.” He says, curling into himself. He hears Alfyn shuffling in his bedroll from behind him. _Never show others your back, Therion,_ _his_ words whisper in his head, but he can’t bring himself to turn around, in case he might catch a glimpse of his face, and he wouldn’t be able to hold back his tears anymore. He brings up his hands to scratch at his eyelids, at the long, vertical line running from above his eyebrow to just above his lip, hidden by his fringe.

He only notices that Alfyn has gotten out of his bedroll to loom over him when he gently, as if he were as fragile glass, places his hands against his smaller ones, lowering them from his face. With the amount of force the apothecary was using to grip his hands he could easily rip them free, reach for the dagger under his pillow, and run away, but some invisible force keeps his hands in Alfyn’s own. He doesn't want to let go.

Slowly, as slowly as physically possible, Alfyn maneuvers Therion’s body so they’re sitting up and facing each other, not once letting go of his hands, scarred and dirtied as they are.

“You know, things like that aren’t meant to go away quickly.” Alfyn says, caressing the back of his hand with his thumbs. “It’s not supposed to go away quickly. Things like that just stay, and it’s not good that they do, it’s just normal. If you’re not scarred by something like that then, well, that’s not normal.”

“Therion, I don’t know much about you, and I don’t know anyone that does.” He says, gripping his hands a little tighter. His fingers are rough and calloused, a result of picking at prickly plants and handling his heavy axe. They’re warm, and Therion really, really wishes he would never let go, lest he forget the warmth of his hand.

“But, I want to be one of those guys. I want to be someone who knows you. Not Therion the master thief, or any other fancy title you have. I want to know Therion, without all the fancy titles.” Alfyn then lifts his head, and he, in response, slowly lifts his head as well. “That is, if you’ll let me.”

And gods, his eyes. His brown eyes, raw like dirt, kind, trusting, and so, so bright. They’re absolutely nothing like the green of Darius’s own. They project, real, genuine care for others. When was the last time he met someone like that?

He realizes then that he _does_ want Alfyn to know. He wants to open up to Alfyn. He wants to be able to say that Darius isn’t the only one who really knows him anymore. The Darius _doesn’t_ know him anymore. He wants Alfyn to know who he is. The him without the facade.

Suddenly a droplet of rain hit his hand, still held in the apothecary’s own. That isn't right—it almost never rains in the Cliftlands, and it's the middle of summer. His heart hurts a certain pain he can’t quite place his finger on. His scars aren't aching like they usually do when the weather takes a drastic change, so it can't be rain.

“Huh? Hey—” Alfyn stutters. Why is he stuttering? He looks up from their hands to see his concerned expression looking down at him.

“Was it something I said?” He asks. “I’m so sorry. Please don’t cry.” Cry? He's... crying?

He looks back down at his hands, and the tears pooling in his eyes fall down, across his cheeks, and innocently land on his hand. When he realizes this, the ache of heart starts to make sense, and so does the wetness of his cheeks. He can’t help the sob that escapes him, but it doesn’t seem like Alfyn minds.

“I—” He starts, voice shaky, and he’s not sure he can get another word out without sounding pathetic. Still, he needs to reassure Alfyn. He may be a thief, but he doesn't want to be a monster. “It’s not you.”

Alfyn grips his hand tighter, and he lets out a sob, louder than the last time. Then another, and another, until he’s sobbing uncontrollably, gently taking his hands out of Alfyn’s (pure, unsullied) own to aggressively wipe at the tears and try to muffle the sobs into his scarf.

“I don’t want to be alone.” He says between sobs. It shameful, the way he’s unable to form coherent words, let alone say them in straight line. He must be a pathetic sight, and yet Alfyn doesn’t shy away. In fact, he wraps his arms around him, pulling him close.

He sobs into the apothecary’s chest. No words are said between them aside from the Therion’s sobbing and Alfyn’s “let it all out, I’m here for you” or occasional “it’s alright.” Neither of them mind the proximity, or the possibility of someone seeing them like this. No person in their right mind would wander the Cliftlands at this time of night.

“I don’t want to be alone anymore...!”

Eventually, Therion’s sobs fade to light hiccups, and hiccups to sniffs. Therion pulls away from the apothecary, hiding in his scarf.

“Feelin’ alright?” Alfyn asks. Therion merely nods. “That’s good.” The two remain like that for a while.

“Hey,” Therion breaks the silence. “Sorry for getting your shirt wet.” He apologizes, but Alfyn smiles anyway, warm and welcoming.

“S’ alright. I don’t mind. I’m just glad you’re feelin’ alright.” He smiles again, bright as always. He smiles back, just a little. He owes him that much, and much more. Alfyn’s smile grows wider.

“Well, it’s gettin’ pretty late. We didn’t really chat though, haha.”

“I guess not.” He replies.

“We should head to bed. We gotta get an early start if we wanna get to Bolderfall, right?” He nods. “Let’s get to sleep.”

As the two settle into bed, it almost feels intimate. He did just show him the most vulnerable side of him, after all. That did a lot to people’s relationships. He expected Alfyn to push him away when he saw him crying, just like Darius had. Thieves aren’t supposed to show emotion, as he said.

But Alfyn wasn’t looking for Therion, the master thief. He wasn’t looking for Cordelia’s slave, or the lone wolf act he’s set up for himself. He wants to know Therion, without all the titles. He could work with that.

In fact, it felt kinda nice.

“Well,” Alfyn says, facing him, lying down in his bedroll. “Let’s get some sleep, okay?” Goodnight.”

“Alfyn.”

“Hm?”

“Thank you.”

Alfyn chuckles at that.

“You’re welcome, Therion. Goodnight.”

“...night.”

He isn't alone anymore.


End file.
